


Succession

by Yevynaea



Series: Lost in the Woods [2]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Corruption, Family, Gen, Minor Character Death, One Shot, Original Character Death(s), SO MUCH ANGST GUYS, Sad Ending, Time Skips, Transformation, Well - Freeform, and, and sort of major character death too i guess, because i started thinking about what's happen to greg after that, i had to continue the first one, sort of, this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 20:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2595566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yevynaea/pseuds/Yevynaea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lantern stays lit, this time, because no one is about to let it go out. (Even though Wirt sometimes wishes they would.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Succession

            They try for a long time, to find a way to get home. Or, they try to find a way to get Greg home, and pretend that Wirt will still be able to tag along, even though deep down he knows he can’t leave. In the end, though, they have to accept that they’re both stuck. For all his new power—which terrifies him still—Wirt can’t send his little brother home.

            So he does the next best thing.

            He twists the trees closest to the Woodsman’s house, turns their branches into arms and uses them to help fix the half-shattered building. Beatrice and her whole family help too, once their wings have all been snipped away into fingers. But Wirt lets them leave the mill destroyed, even though the machine inside still works, because he can’t bring himself to think about what will happen if the lantern runs out of oil, but it’s even worse to think of what he would have to do to make sure it doesn’t.

            Once it’s finished, the house is bigger and better than before. It stretches across the clearing and stops just shy of the tree line, and branches grow out over half of it, claiming it as belonging to the forest, to _Wirt._ Not a single branch has found its way inside, though, because for all it belongs to the woods it is still separate, still a safe haven free of the darkness.

            There are enough rooms in the rebuilt homestead for all of them, even Wirt, even though he doesn’t sleep anymore and prefers to stay outside at night. That’s where he can watch the house to make sure everyone is safe.

            He guards them, even though there’s little to guard them from, now. He stays in the shadows and takes note of Beatrice’s parents embracing Greg little by little into their brood. Wirt sees the Woodsman finally grieve his long-gone daughter, and begin to find a place for himself with the rest of them.

            Wirt can’t send Greg back home, it’s much too late for that now, but he and the others can build a new one. And they do.

 

■▲■▲■▲■

 

            Wirt doesn’t expect them to age. Not here, when they’re already…well, already _here_. But they do, and the logic of it—or lack thereof—drives him crazy for a while before he remembers where he is and stops trying to find reason in it. Gregory, and Beatrice and her siblings, they grow up. Beatrice’s parents and the Woodsman, they grow old. When the Woodsman’s hands shake too much to chop down trees and keep the fireplace warm, Greg goes out with the axe instead.

            Every once and a while Greg sees an Edelwood tree, and after their whole family mourns the lost soul inside, he dutifully chops it down for his brother’s lantern. Greg never asks Wirt about the Edelwoods, even though he wants to. He wants to ask who they were, wants to ask _how lost were they already,_ because he wants to believe that Wirt wouldn’t claim those who still had a chance, but there are too few visitors at the house, and too many trees, for him to have no doubts.

One day, when Greg is in his room, pouring oil into the lantern, Wirt glides over, watching through the window. Greg opens his mouth to speak, to make a joke, to ask a question, to demand answers, he doesn’t know for sure. Wirt’s brightly glowing eyes meet his brother’s, and Greg finds whatever words were building behind his lips gone; his mouth is dry, and he nearly drops the bottle of oil. Wirt sees, and asks if he’s okay, and Greg laughs and waves away the other’s concerns with a joke about being overtired.

The lantern is full, and the flame inside is bright. Wirt’s fingers twitch when Gregory moves the light to its place on the bedside table, and Greg pretends not to see, just like he always does.

            Greg never asks about the Edelwoods.

 

■▲■▲■▲■

 

            They wake one morning and the Woodsman is gone, because even here, no one lasts forever. There’s an Edelwood tree growing in the backyard that wasn’t there before, and Greg can’t bring himself to chop it down. One of Beatrice’s younger brothers does it instead, because the lantern is almost out of oil. Greg wants to yell at Wirt then, wants to scream at him that the old man should’ve stayed, should’ve been safe here, or at least should’ve been able to move on to Pottsfield, since that’s where people tended to go when they were done with the rest of the Unknown.

            When he sees the look on his little brother’s face, Wirt’s stomach twists.

            “He’s with her.” He offers quietly, leaning down to look over his brother’s shoulder at the Edelwood stump. He has to tilt his face toward Greg to avoid one of his antlers hitting Greg in the head. Wirt has no idea if what he’s saying is true, but god does he want it to be, and he hopes that the maybe-lie is enough, even though part of him already knows it isn’t. Greg swings his axe down, and it buries into the dirt easily.

            “He should be with us _._ ” Greg says simply, and there’s so much accusation in the statement that all Wirt wants is to retreat into the woods. He doesn’t.

            “I know.” He murmurs instead, and it’s all the explanation he ever offers.

 

■▲■▲■▲■

 

            Completely by happenstance, Wirt finds the magical bluebird that cursed Beatrice’s family all that time before. The creature has a broken wing, is on the forest floor and waiting in terror for something to come along and eat him, when Wirt steps out from behind a tree and frightens the bird even more.

            “S-stay back, Beast!” The bluebird shouts, apparently determined to go down fighting even though he’s shaking so hard it seems like his feathers might fall off.

            “Oh, so what, you don’t want my help?” Wirt asks. The bird pauses, confused for a moment, and Wirt uses the time to scoop the thing up and onto a high branch. “There. That’s marginally safer, at least. Right?”

            “Um…right.” The bluebird replies. “T-thank you.”

            It sounds like a question. Wirt grins—not that the bird sees it, all anyone sees is shadows—and folds his hands behind his back.

            “You owe me a favor now, don’t you? Bluebird rules?” Wirt laughs at the look of confusion that settles on the bird’s face. “Never mind. Inside joke.”

            “O-ok. I can grant you one w-wish, if you want.” The bird offers, clearly worried of angering his savior. “Do you have any enemies? I could turn them into bluebirds for you!”

            Wirt cocks his head at the creature when he makes the connection.

            “Can you make it so someone can change back?” He asks, because he’s seen Beatrice stare wistfully at the sky too many times over the years not to realize she misses the freedom of wings. The bird mirrors Wirt’s head-tilt.

            “Like, so they can switch back and forth? Probably. Never tried before. But that doesn’t seem like something you’d want to do for an enemy.”

            Picking the bird up again and moving him to perch on an antler, Wirt begins the walk home.

            “I have a friend who might be interested, though.” He isn’t sure if the bluebird is more surprised by his new perch, or the prospect of ‘the Beast’ having a friend. He doesn’t much care, in any case, because just _wait_ until they get back to the house.

 

■▲■▲■▲■

 

            In the end, Beatrice and all her siblings decide to take the bluebird up on his offer. The bird has his wing properly set and bandaged, in exchange, and the look of bewilderment on his face stays the entire time.

            The legends of the Beast have evolved over time, as legends are wont to do, but they are never quite right, because then they wouldn’t be legends. And soon after the bluebird re-curses Beatrice’s family, the legends change further than they’d done already. The innkeeper finds others often agreeing with her now, when she says bluebirds are a sign of bad luck.

            “They’re the Beast’s little spies, all of ‘em.” She says of the birds, when people ask—and when they don’t. “They nest in the Edelwood trees, and they whisper all _sorts_ of secrets to him and that Woodsman o’ his. If you see a bluebird, it’s ‘cause it’s seeing if you’re lost so that the Beast can claim ya’.”

            Beatrice and the others quickly learn not to be seen. But they still watch, still see everything in the Unknown, because while it’s Greg’s job to keep the lantern lit, it’s theirs to make sure there’s enough oil that he _can._ They seek out those who are lost, and they poke and prod at them and try to get them home. And when they can’t, well, that’s when Wirt steps in.

            It’s a strange thing, Beatrice finds, to feel such a mix of relief and despair whenever a new Edelwood grows.

 

■▲■▲■▲■

 

            Wendell doesn’t remember how she got here, or where the heck _here_ even is, but she does know that this old French lady has the biggest house Wendell’s ever seen, and it’s snowing outside, so despite her weird hostess’ half-nonsensical stories, there’s no way Wendell is going back out into the woods right now.

            “Goodness, what horrible weather.” The woman tuts, when a particularly strong gust of wind rattlers the windows.

            “Uh-huh.” Wendell takes a sip of the tea she’s been given, grimacing at the taste.

            “No one will be out in this weather, except the Beast.” The woman continues.

            “The _what_?” The girl asks, wondering if she’s heard right.

            “The Beast! He lives in these woods, you know.” The woman looks frightened now. “He turns lost souls into Edelwood trees, and his Woodsman chops them into oil, to keep his lantern lit.”

            “Um.” Wendell’s pretty sure this lady’s crazy. “I haven’t seen any beasts or any woodsmen. Just a couple of bluebirds.”

            The woman lets out a high-pitched sound somewhere between a gasp and a shriek.

            “Bluebirds?” She asks, panicked. “Then he has most likely claimed you already!”

            “Wh--”

            “Bluebirds always travel with the Beast.” The woman explains, if that can be called an explanation. She stands, ushering Wendell to her feet and toward the door. “You must leave here at once, before he comes for us both!”

            “Can’t I wait out the storm, at least?” Wendell asks incredulously, but then she’s getting hurried out into the snow, and the snowfall itself has stopped now, but it’s still pretty windy, and the snow is up halfway to her knees. She gives up hope of being let back into the house after a good ten minutes of pounding on the door, then starts on her way back into the woods with a frustrated whine. Her teeth are clattering and her fingertips are purple when she sees the bird.

            It’s perched on a low branch in front of her, watching her closely. Wendell glares at it.

            “If I freeze out here because of that old lady’s superstitions, I’m blaming you.” She tells it solemnly.

            “Duly noted.” Deadpans the bird, and Wendell’s brain grinds to a halt. She can’t think of a single word to say, even when the bird is grabbing the edge of her scarf, almost Snow White style, and pulling her towards who-knows-what. “Can’t you move faster, kid? We’re too far from the house for you to slow down now.”

            “W-what house?” Wendell asks, her thoughts finally reconnecting to her voice. “And my name’s not kid, it’s Wendell.”

            “Hah! That’s almost as bad as _Wirt_.” The bird laughs. “My name’s Beatrice. My brothers and sisters were gonna be here, too, but they’re busy, so you just get me for now.”

            “And which one of them is ‘Wirt’?” Wendell asks, trying to move faster through the snow like the bluebird asked, because Beast or no, Beatrice said there was a house at the end of this trek, and that’s good enough for Wendell.

            “Nah, Wirt isn’t my brother. Not exactly.” Beatrice doesn’t explain any further, and Wendell _hmms_ somewhat suspiciously at the vague reply. It’s about then when the storm comes back again, and it’s apparently back with a vengeance. With Beatrice curled inside her coat, Wendell continues through the trees, following the bluebird’s directions as Beatrice gives them, and as they go the blizzard steadily grows worse.

            “It hasn’t snowed this much in a long time.” The bird says after a while, so quietly that Wendell almost misses it. “Not since…”

            When the bird trails off, Wendell shakes her, just a little.

            “Don’t get lost on memory lane right now, please. We still need to get to that house you were talking about.” The girl says, trying to laugh, but she can’t feel her hands anymore at all and her feet are beginning to follow suit.

            “Right.” Beatrice nods. “It’s close.”

            Wendell collapses into the snow.

            “I can’t.” She says, chest heaving. “I can’t go any further.”

            “I’ll bring help back.” Beatrice says, taking flight, and Wendell’s vision goes fuzzy before the bird is even out of sight.

            Something warm is wrapping around her; she’s vaguely aware of what might be a leaf fluttering in front of her eyes from whatever it is. Branches, maybe? Vines? Wendell isn’t awake enough to care. But whatever they are, they feel safe and snug and she wonders why she’d ever want to leave their grasp…and then the branches recede, and she’s being lifted up into arms almost as cold as the snow.

            She looks up, and sees a shadow, sees what look like long, twisting antlers, and bright white eyes. And then she sees nothing else.

 

■▲■▲■▲■

 

            Greg’s fingers tighten on the handle of his axe when he sees his brother’s shape through the snow. He’s following Beatrice to where the girl is supposed to be, because he knows from experience he may need to cut Edelwood branches away so that she can be brought to the house, and he stops in his tracks when he sees Wirt, with the girl cradled gently in his spindly arms. A bright purple scarf is wrapped around her neck, dangling so long that the end nearly touches the ground.

            “The lantern’s not full. It isn’t going to last much longer, brother o’ mine.” Greg says, and he isn’t sure whether or not he means it as a chance for Wirt to take back his actions. He pretends not to hear when Beatrice hisses his name.

            “Neither is she, Greg.” Wirt replies, and again Greg is unsure, this time of whether his brother’s words are justification or prediction.

            “Okay.” Greg says, because there isn’t much else to say. Beatrice perches on one of Wirt’s antlers and tries to talk to the girl, hoping to wake the child up.

            They start walking home.

 

■▲■▲■▲■

 

            A few weeks later, when it’s been days and days since Wendell left their home and moved on in her quest to return to hers, it’s Greg who asks the question. It’s late, and he and Wirt are in the woods, Wirt watching while Greg chops an Edelwood he found a while ago.

            “Did she give up?” He doesn’t ask all the other questions that go along with it.

            “No.” Wirt says, shaking his head, and Gregory can’t tell if he’s lying. “She made it.”

            The Beast’s fingers still twitch toward the lantern when the Woodsman picks it up.

 

■▲■▲■▲■

 

`           Greg finds a new tree two days later, and he can just barely see the edge of a bright purple scarf peeking out from between the bark. He takes a deep breath, and slumps with his back against the tree, staying that way for a long while before finally standing, and picking up his axe. Tears in his eyes, he sings a half-familiar song under his breath as he chops down the Edelwood.

            “Tra-la-la-la, tra-la-la-la, chop the wood to light the fire.”


End file.
